The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Read online

  Pleasant Street was an old neighborhood of Victorian frame houses ornamented with quantities of jigsaw trim around windows, porches, rooflines, and gables. The large residences had been built by successful families like the MacMurchies and Duncans in the heyday of Moose County.

  “This street looks like Disneyland,” said Clayton. “It doesn’t look real.”

  “There may be no other street in the United States with so much gingerbread trim still intact. Right now there’s a proposal to restore all the houses and have it recognized as a historic neighborhood.”

  Qwilleran parked in front of a neat two-tone gray house that still had a stone carriage step at the curb. The sidewalk and the steps of the house had been recently broomed, showing the streak marks of the broom straw in the snow.

  As they walked up the front steps, Clayton asked, “What kind of pictures shall I take?”

  “Close-ups of Mr. MacMurchie and his dowsing stick, plus anything else that looks interesting. If you get some good shots, the paper might do a picture spread and give you a credit line.”

  Clayton had never seen a doorbell in the middle of the door, and he snapped a picture of it. He had never heard the raucous clang it made, either.

  “Remember, Doc,” Qwilleran said. “I ask the questions; you click the camera, but do it unobtrusively.”

  “Do you tape the interview?”

  “If he gives permission; that’s our paper’s policy. But I take notes, whether we tape or not. When I was younger, I could commit a whole interview to memory, and it would be printed verbatim without error. But that was just showing off.”

  The man who responded to the bell was a leathery-faced Scot whose red hair was turning sandy with age. “Come in! Come in, Qwill” was his hearty welcome.

  “Gil, this is my photographer, Clayton Robinson.”

  “Hiya, there! Let’s go right back to the kitchen. There’s some folks from the bank working in the front rooms. All my dowsing gear is laid out on the kitchen table.”

  A long hall extended through to the rear, similar to that in the Duncan house. Lynette’s furnishings were stubbornly Victorian, however; this collection represented the taste of passing generations and the fads of recent decades: a little William Morris, a little Art Deco, a little Swedish modern, a little French provincial, a little Mediterranean.

  As the trio walked down the hall, Qwilleran glimpsed antique weapons in a glass-topped curio table. . . a small black dog asleep on the carpeted stairs. . . a man and a woman examining one of the parlors and making notes.

  “Excuse the mess,” the dowser apologized when they reached the kitchen. “My wife passed away last year, and I’m no good at housekeeping. I’m getting ready to move into a retirement complex, and I’m selling the house and most of my goods. Willard Carmichael at the bank said I can get more for the house if I fix it up so that it’s historic. You know Willard, don’t you? He sent this out-of-town expert over here today to figure out what needs to be done and what it’ll cost. Sounds pretty good to me!. . . Pull up a couple of chairs. Do you want me to explain this gear? Or do you want to ask questions?”

  Laid out on the table was an array of forked twigs, L-shaped rods, barbed wire, string, even a wire coat hanger.

  “Let’s talk first,” Qwilleran suggested, setting up his tape recorder. “How long have you been dowsing, Gil?. . . I’ll tape this, if you don’t mind.”

  “Ever since I was a kid and my granddad showed me how to hold the forked stick. He found good water for folks, and also veins of iron ore and copper. The mines closed a long time ago, but folks always need good drinking water. When there’s a drought, some wells run dry. When a new building’s going up, they have to know if there’s water down there and how many gallons a minute they can get.”

  Qwilleran asked, “Considering new technology, is water witching a dying art?”

  “No way! No way! My grandson’s been finding water since he was twelve. It’s a gift, you know, and you pass it on, but it skips a generation. My father couldn’t find water to save his life! My son can’t either. But my grandson can. See what I mean?”

  Occasionally there was the soft click of a camera and a flash of light.

  “How often are you called upon to use this skill?”

  “All depends. I’m a licensed plumber, and my wife and me ran the hardware store for years, but I’d always go out and dowse if somebody wanted me to. Still do.”

  “Are you always successful?”

  “If the water’s down there, by golly I’ll find it! Sometimes it just ain’t there! Either way, I never charge for my services, and I’ve made a lot of friends. Of course, I’ve made enemies, too. There’s a well-driller in Mooseville who hates my guts. He’ll drill a couple of dry holes, and then I’m called in and I find water with my little forked stick. Drives the guy nuts!” MacMurchie stopped to enjoy a chuckle. “Then there’s an old biddy in Kennebeck who says it’s the work of the devil. But just wait till her well runs dry and see who she calls!” The dowser slapped his knee and had another laugh. “If she calls me, I’m gonna go out there with one of them Halloween masks with red horns.”

  “How about the scientists? The geologists?”

  “Oh, them! Just because they can’t explain it, they think it’s all superstition. How about you, Qwill? What’s your honest opinion?”

  “I’ll reserve my opinion until next spring when you give a demonstration. Meanwhile, what are these gadgets?” He waved his hand at the odd assortment on the kitchen table.

  “Okay. Here’s the famous forked twig—goes back hundreds of years. Can be birch, maple, willow, apple, whatever. Should be fresh, with the sap in it. . . So you hold it in front of you, stem pointing up. The two forks are in your hands, palms up—like this.” The camera clicked. “You walk across the ground, concentrating. You pace back and forth. Suddenly the stick quivers, and the stem swings down and points to the ground. There’s a vein of water under your feet!”

  “Uncanny!” Qwilleran said. “How far down?”

  “Could be twenty, forty, sixty feet. If I say it’s down there, all you gotta do is drill—or dig. My granddad dug wells by hand, as deep as eighty feet! Sent the mud up in buckets.”

  Qwilleran heard voices in the next room: the rumble of a man’s voice and a woman’s shrill laughter. Catching Clayton’s eye, he jerked his head in that direction, and the young photographer quietly left the room.

  “Are there any women dowsers, Gil?”

  “In some places. Not here.”

  “Explain these other gadgets.”

  “They’ll all find water, but mostly it depends on the dowser. Nothing works if you’re just fooling around, or if you don’t feel too good, or if you think it’s really a lot of baloney.” MacMurchie looked up suddenly, over Qwilleran’s shoulder, and said, “Yes, Mr. James. Want to see me?”

  A deep, pleasant voice said, “We’re leaving now. We’ll be back tomorrow to appraise the upstairs. I think you have a gold mine here. Don’t let me disturb you. We can find our way out.”

  Qwilleran had his back to the voice and saw no reason to turn around.

  “Nice fella,” the dowser said as footsteps retreated and a woman’s laughter drifted back to them.

  Qwilleran stood up and pocketed his recorder. “This has been very enlightening. I’ll look forward to the demonstration in the spring. . . Where’s my photographer? Let’s go, Clayton.”

  “Here I am—in the dining room. I’ve found a friend.” He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and a black schnauzer was curled on his chest, looking up at him with a shameless expression of devotion.

  “That’s Cody,” said MacMurchie. “You can have her if you want. I can’t have a pet where I’m going. She’s a sweet little girl. She was my wife’s.”

  Clayton said, “I live on a farm. She’d like it there. Can I take her on the plane, Chief?”

  “Better discuss it with your grandmother.”

  While Clayton took a few pictures of
Cody, the two men walked toward the front door, and Qwilleran asked about the weapons in the curio table.

  “They’re Scottish dirks—longer than daggers, shorter than swords.” He lifted the glass top and removed a dirk from its scabbard. “See these grooves in the blade? They’re for blood. Those Highlanders thought of everything.” There were also two silver pins three inches in diameter, set with stones as big as egg yolks—a kind of smoky quartz. “Those are brooches to anchor a man’s plaid on his shoulder. The stones are cairngorms, found only on Cairngorm mountain in Scotland. We call the brooches poached eggs. Sorry to say, I’ve got to unload all this stuff. No room in my new place. I’ll only keep the dirk with the silver lion. It was a gift from my wife.”

  “How much do you want for all the others?” Qwilleran asked.

  MacMurchie rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Well. . . let’s see. . . four dirks with brass hilts and leather scabbards. . . and two silver brooches. . . You could have ’em for a thousand, and I’d throw in the table.”

  “I wouldn’t need the table, but I’ll think about the others and let you know.”

  “Are you going to Scottish Night at the lodge?”

  “They’ve invited me, and I’ve bought a kilt, but so far I haven’t had the nerve to wear it.”

  “Wear it to Scottish Night, Qwill. There’ll be twenty or thirty fellas in kilts there, and you’ll feel right at home. I’ll lend you a knife to wear in your sock. You have to have a knife in your sock to be proper.”

  “Isn’t it considered a concealed weapon?”

  “Well, Andy Brodie wears one to Scottish Night, and he never got arrested. When you go in, you show it to the doorman, that’s all. Wait a second.” MacMurchie disappeared and returned with a stag-horn-handled knife in a scabbard. “You borrow this, Qwill. It’s lucky to wear something borrowed.”

  Qwilleran accepted, saying it was a good-looking knife.

  “It’s called a d-u-b-h, but it’s pronounced thoob.”

  They said good-bye. Qwilleran told Cody she was a good dog. He and his photographer drove away from Pleasant Street.

  “That was cool,” Clayton said.

  “How’d you like to stop at the Olde Tyme Soda Fountain for a sundae?”

  It was a new addition to downtown Pickax, part of the revitalization sponsored by the K Fund. A light, bright shop with walls and floor of vanilla white, it had small round tables and a long fountain bar in chocolatecolored marble. Customers sat on “ice cream” chairs or high stools of twisted wire, with strawberry red seats. Sundaes were called college ices; sodas were called phosphates; banana splits remained banana splits. That was Clayton’s choice. Qwilleran had a double scoop of coffee ice cream. Everything was served in old-style ice cream dishes of thick molded glass.

  “Did you shoot the whole roll?” Qwilleran asked.

  “No, I’ve got a few exposures left. I’m leaving tomorrow, so I’ll send you the prints. I hate to go. Grandma’s a lotta fun.”

  “Did you get a look at the people from the bank?”

  “Yeah, he was okay, but she was weird.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Just weird. Her voice—it sounded kind of electronic.”

  An apt description of Danielle Carmichael, Qwilleran thought. “What were they doing?”

  “He was walking around and measuring things and talking, and she was writing down what he said. I turned on my recorder. Want me to send a transcript when I get home?”

  “Good idea! Did you enjoy your holiday?”

  “Yeah, lotsa fun, lotsa food. Grandma remembered all my favorites. Do you think she’ll marry Mr. O’Dell?”

  “I don’t know. Both have a very positive attitude. They both like to help people. They might make a good match.”

  Clayton was lost for a while in deep thought as he tackled the complexities of a banana split.

  Then Qwilleran questioned him about life on the farm. It was a poultry factory. There were no farm animals, just watchdogs and barn cats, but no indoor pets. Clayton had a stepmother who wouldn’t allow animals in the house.

  “I’d like to come up here and live with Grandma and go to Pickax High School. It’s cool!” he said. “My stepmother wouldn’t mind, but my dad doesn’t want me to.”

  As they pulled into Celia’s parking lot, Clayton said, “Thanks a lot, Chief. It was cool.”

  * * *

  When Qwilleran returned home, he noticed heavy vehicle tracks and large footprints in the recently fallen snow around his condo, but he was not alarmed. It meant that some long-awaited furniture had been delivered. Fran Brodie, who knew his likes and dislikes, had been able to supply the basics for his condo, but additional items were straggling in. She had bought certain items of old pine farm furniture, almost contemporary in its simplicity, and had stripped the finish to a honey color. A light interior was a good choice for a building nestled in the woods. The walls were off-white, and honey was the color of the pine woodwork.

  Qwilleran’s unit had a lofty living room with large windows overlooking the river. On the opposite wall was a balcony with two bedrooms, and below it were the kitchen and dining alcove. He would use the alcove as an office, and he needed a table or desk surface large enough for typewriter, lamp, papers, books, files, and two supervisory cats.

  On this day, as soon as he unlocked the door, Koko notified him that something had been added, yowling and running back and forth to the office alcove. The writing table was indeed large, and it had character. One could imagine that families had been fed on its ample surface, bread had been kneaded, tomatoes had been canned, babies had been bathed, sheets had been ironed, and letters had been written to loved ones during the Spanish American War. There was also a huge stripped-pine cupboard with open shelves above and cabinet below.

  Qwilleran lost no time in loading the shelves with books recently purchased or brought from the barn. One shelf he reserved for the Melville set, volumes one to twelve, numbered in chronological order: Typee; Omoo; Mardi; Redburn; White-Jacket; Moby-Dick; Pierre; The Piazza Tales; Israel Potter; The Confidence-Man; Billy Budd; and Weeds and Wildings, the last being a book of poems. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

  Koko was impressed, too. During the evening, when it was time for another reading from The Old Wives’ Tale, only one cat reported. Koko was curled up on the shelf with the leather-bound volumes. Had he become a literary critic? Was he saying that Melville was a better writer than Bennett?

  FIVE

  On the last day of the year it snowed as usual, and high winds were predicted. Wetherby Goode advised New Year’s Eve celebrants to stay off the highways if possible. Then blow ye winds, heigh-ho! was his quotation for the day.

  In Indian Village it was customary for neighbors to celebrate with neighbors, and there were numerous at-home parties. For those who liked elbow-to-elbow conviviality, there was a late-night get-together at the clubhouse: light supper, champagne at midnight, no paper hats, no noisemakers. Earlier, Qwilleran and Polly and two other couples would dine with the Exbridges.

  Don Exbridge, the X in XYZ Enterprises, was the developer responsible for Indian Village, and he and his new wife lived in Building One. They had a double unit, said to be quite posh, with gold faucets and all that. Qwilleran wondered if the Exbridges’ windows rattled when the wind blew, heigh-ho, as they did in Building Five. He wondered if the floors bounced like trampolines, and if the Exbridges could hear the plumbing next door. He enjoyed a recurring fantasy: The K Fund would buy Indian Village—the only planned, upscale community in the county—then tear it down and build it right.

  * * *

  The Exbridges proved to be charming hosts, and the dinner was excellent. They had a cook and houseman in addition to gold faucets. Qwilleran kept his ear tuned to the fenestration, but there was no rattle even when the wind swayed the trees frighteningly. As for the floors, they were hardwood with Oriental rugs—not plywood with wall-to-wall carpet. The plumbing was discreetly quie
t.

  There was much conversation about the theft of the bridge club’s money. The new clubhouse manager, Lenny Inchpot, had been questioned by the police; the money jar was kept in a cabinet in his office. Also questioned were officers of the clubhouse association and the maintenance crew of the building. All agreed there was too much casual traffic in and out. The premises were available for rental, and there were catered parties, lectures, classes, art exhibits, and the like. There was a TV lounge, and there was a room with exercise equipment. Anyone could walk in and watch a soap opera or pump a little iron. There was even a cash bar during certain hours. Locking the doors and issuing keys to members would be the first move.

  When the time came to ring in the New Year, scores of residents converged on the clubhouse. The main hall had the air of a ski lodge, with a lofty wood-paneled ceiling, exposed beams, and a big stone fireplace. Windows overlooked the floodlighted woods, enchanting in winter white. Indoor trees and baskets of ferns, with all the green perfection of plastic, were banked in corners. Silver letters were strung across the chimney breast spelling H-A-P-P-Y N-E-W Y-E-A-R.

  Since dress was optional, it ranged from jeans to black tie. Polly was wearing her terra-cotta suit, admired by everyone, and Qwilleran was in suit and tie. He and Arch had considered wearing their baseball ties, but their women vetoed it; the Exbridges would not be amused. Amanda Goodwinter was there in her thirty-year-old dinner dress; she considered large parties an abomination but attended for commercial and political reasons. A husky man who looked dapper in a double-breasted suit wore a large lapel button inscribed: HIT ME! I’M THE WEATHER GUY!

  Willard Carmichael and his houseguest wore dinner jackets. Danielle was spectacular in a low-cut, high-cut cocktail sheath, leading Arch Riker to mumble, “You’d think a banker could afford to buy his wife something longer.”

  “At least she has good legs,” Qwilleran mumbled in reply, “but she makes Lynette look like a prison matron.”

  In a navy blue taffeta shirtdress with her grandmother’s jewelry, Lynette had dined with the Carmichaels. She reported that Willard had prepared a delicious beef Wellington; Danielle’s cousin was adorable; his deep voice gave her goosebumps; even his name was romantic: Carter Lee James. All the women were talking about him, she said.